Stepping Out

by Laura Langston

  Dad’s van hits a pothole when he slows for the school zone. On the sidewalk, students in groups of twos and threes straggle down the block to school. Since Hunter has a doctor’s appointment, Dad’s driving me this morning.

  “Good luck with your dry run in drama today.” Dad leans over and pats my knee.

  I lick my suddenly dry lips. A knee tap is big-time encouragement coming from Dad. “Thanks.”

  He turns into the drop-off zone. I see a couple of Brooke’s friends up ahead, including Twin Two. Oh crap. At least Brooke isn’t there. She’s pretty much avoided me since Saturday morning. Maybe I should call her a major rectal opening more often.

  I fling open the passenger door. “This is good.”

  “Whoa. Hold up.” He slams on the brakes. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Yeah. If I wrecked my good foot that would be disastrous.” Almost as bad as being driven to school by a parent. “Thanks, Dad.” I grab my bag and jump out before any of Brooke’s friends see me.

  I’m halfway to my locker when Carly calls out, “Paige, wait!”

  I stop in front of the basketball team’s trophy cabinet and watch her hurry down the hall, her dark hair streaming out behind her and a wide smile on her face.

  Her smile fades when she stops in front of me. “What are you wearing?” She stares at the flowing peach top I picked up at the thrift store yesterday after I got my hair cut. I also found a cool vest and scored a pair of nearly new 7 For All Mankind black jeans. “I thought you were wearing something red for this afternoon’s performance.”

  Carly believes in color therapy. She thinks red will energize me and draw positive attention. To get her own positive attention, she relies on tight, low-cut sweaters in every color going. Today’s is royal blue. “I changed my mind.”

  She frowns. “Not smart. Peach stimulates the appetite.”

  “That’s good.” We start to walk. “I’ll leave them hungry for more.”

  Nothing can spoil my mood. Yesterday’s haircut turned out okay (my hair looks almost normal for the first time in, like, forever). My routines are feeling solid, and the subscription numbers on my YouTube channel are up. Way up.

  “I almost reached nine thousand subscribers this morning,” I tell Carly. It’s low by Jenna Marbles standards, but great considering I’ve only been doing this for nine months.

  She grins. “I saw. I’ll bet you’ll hit that magic ten thousand before we leave for Portland at the end of the week. Maybe then you’ll start making some money.”

  I stop in front of my locker. My hands are clammy. It takes me a couple of tries to spin my combination. “Maybe.” I don’t know why I’m resisting turning this into a business. Maybe because until now, vlogging has been fun. And chasing money makes it more serious somehow.

  She turns to go. “See you at lunch.”

  “Don’t count on it. Roskinski wants to see me in the drama room.”

  “I’ll be in the caf. Come find me when you’re done.”

  But I don’t. By the time Mr. Roskinski finishes explaining how the afternoon will work, there’s only twenty minutes left until the first bell. He disappears to the staff room, and I eat my cheese sandwich sitting on the risers, staring at the stage. I’ll be performing twice in last block to four different classes. Thank goodness Brooke’s class isn’t one of them.

  The stage curtains are half open. Mr. Roskinski has turned on a single spotlight. Most of the other lights in the room are off, throwing the stage into sharp relief. I don’t let myself think about Portland, the ITCF or what’s at stake with the contest. Instead, I visualize myself walking out from behind that shabby gold curtain, delivering my lines and hearing the laughter.

  That’s all I focus on: the laughter.

  When the bell goes, I spend first block in the library, reviewing my notes. I’ve memorized both routines, but in light of what Mr. Roskinski said about having backup material, I’ve also got a few bits I can pull out in case I need them. By the time last block rolls around and I head back to the classroom, I’m stoked. I’m ready.

  Or I think I am. But as I stand backstage listening to seventy students coming into the room, I realize I should have brought my antiperspirant to school. I look like I have two peaches blooming under my armpits.

  When Mr. Roskinski calls my name, my heart skips a beat. I clutch the wireless mic in my slippery palms and leave the wings. I don’t look at him, though I know he’s standing off to the side, recording every second of my performance.

  “Walk much?” I ask as I limp to the front of the stage. I hear a few nervous giggles. But when I add, “Not really,” the laughing starts.

  That gives me the confidence I need to start on my bit about my trip to Sephora, which doesn’t get the number of laughs I expect. Different jokes work with different groups—comedy rule number two. And there are way more guys than girls in this group. My panic starts to rise. I glance at Mr. Roskinski, who gestures to his pocket. Our signal for pull out something else.

  “I am so over body odor,” I say, segueing into a piece I wrote on a whim last night. “I mean, what was God thinking? Why couldn’t she have designed our sweat to smell like bacon? Or banana cupcakes?” The laughs start again, and though my pacing isn’t great, the laughs keep coming for the rest of the routine. Afterward, as those two classes leave and the next two classes file in, Mr. Roskinski talks to me backstage.

  “Don’t be afraid to slow down a little and leave time for the audience to laugh,” he says. “And glance around the group more too.”

  That’ll be tough. I’ve been focusing on one or two friendly faces. Since Hunter and Carly and a few of my other friends are in this next group, I figured I’d focus on them.

  I also figured I’d be less nervous this time too. Wrong. I’m practically hyperventilating as I wait for Mr. Roskinski to introduce me. Maybe because Hunter and Carly and some of my friends are in this group. When he calls my name, I momentarily blank out. But when he gestures with his hand, I snap back and start to move.

  “Walking is great exercise,” I say when I reach the middle of the stage. “Unless you’re me.” A couple of nervous titters. “Maybe that’s why my parents named me Paige and named my sister Brooke.” The laughter starts to build. It’s an easy shot because people in this group know Brooke. They can relate. “I mean, how fast can a page move, you know what I’m saying?” More laughter. “Brooks are like small rivers, so they don’t have that problem. They’re always on the move. Even if they are a little shallow.”

  Everybody laughs.

  Okay, maybe it’s a low blow, but it’s the only joke I’ll make today about Brooke, and it gives me the confidence I need. Forcing myself to gaze at the entire group, I slow down and let the laughter dictate when to deliver the next line. My Sephora material goes over way better with this crowd, and my rant about self-checkout counters at the supermarket makes them laugh too. I end with my funny bit about sleeping on the job while I was in utero and “being born wrong.” Before I know it, I have four peaches blooming under my armpits, and my second practice run is over.

  “That was great!” Carly says when she and Hunter come up to me afterward. A few students are hanging out talking, but the rest have left. Mr. Roskinski is sitting at his desk, writing something. Carly nudges Hunter. “Right?”

  “Yeah. You did great.” But his voice is flat, his face weirdly blank. And he just cleared his throat.

  I stare at him. “What’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing, because that would be a lie.”

  A hit of color blooms high on his cheeks. “It was a cheap shot, that’s all.”

  Irritation prickles the back of my neck. “Oh come on! You know what Brooke’s been saying about me. You heard her on Saturday. What I said about her today was nothing.” Especially compared to what I plan to say
about her at the competition.

  “I’m not talking about Brooke,” Hunter says. “She’s just being a jealous bag.”

  A bag, yes. Jealous? I don’t think so.

  “I’m talking about you,” he adds. “The way you made fun of yourself. It was stupid.”

  My breath catches. “It wasn’t stupid. The audience laughed. That means it worked.”

  “Whatever.” But he won’t meet my gaze. “I thought it was dumb.”

  There’s a funny pressure behind my eyes. Dumb? Really? Before I can answer, he turns away. I spot Mr. Roskinski walking toward me.

  “You did great,” Carly mouths. She gestures to Hunter’s back. “He’s wrong.”

  Carly’s right. It wasn’t dumb. I’m onstage to get laughs. No matter what it takes.

  Nine

  Comedy isn’t just telling a joke. It’s timing, it’s setup, it’s facial expressions, it’s choosing the right topic. Over the next few days I eat, sleep and breathe my routines. I watch the sessions Mr. Roskinski taped so many times I can practically recite them in my sleep. I analyze every word I speak, every pause I make, every beat of laughter I get back. I try out new lines and tweak the existing ones. I visualize a perfect delivery. I try on my stage clothes, pack and repack my suitcase. Wednesday, I email my two video submissions to the contest organizers. Thursday, I do another dry run in drama, only this time I do it after school and Mr. Roskinski is the only one watching, which is weird because he doesn’t laugh once, but I have to pause anyway, as if he is.

  “Remember to breathe, to take your time and to let the energy build as you get into your set,” Mr. Roskinski says after I finish. “Now go home and get a good night’s sleep so you’re well rested for tomorrow’s drive to Portland.”

  Since I was pretty much born to sleep, I don’t expect to have trouble sleeping Thursday night. And I don’t. I fall asleep soon after I go to bed, and it’s all good until my eyes fly open and I wake up in a cold sweat at 3:37 AM.

  I’m competing in the ITCF. And I cannot fail.

  It takes me hours to doze back off. And then I sleep through my alarm, which means I’m still in bed when Hunter comes to the door to pick me up. Hunter can’t stick around, but luckily Mom has the day off so she gets my breakfast, helps me pack my toiletries and drives me to school. I spend block one in math pretending I’m concentrating, and block two in the library pretending I’m reviewing my material. In reality, I’m obsessing. All I can think of is how big a deal this is and how scared I am. Finally, at ten to eleven, I put my material away and head for my locker.

  Where R U? Carly texts as I check and recheck the bag I checked and rechecked last night and again this morning. I’m terrified I’ve forgotten my antiperspirant. No way do I want to sweat peaches on stage again. Hurry up, she adds.

  I glance at my watch. We’re leaving at eleven. I still have five minutes. Relax, I text back. Roskinski’s not on board yet anyway. I see him down the hall, standing outside the office talking to Ms. Vastag.

  Hunter saved you a seat. :)

  In that case…I zip up my bag, slam my locker shut and head down the hall. As I pass the office, Ms. Vastag looks over and smiles. Whoa. I almost stumble. Last time she smiled, I was in grade eight. “Good luck, Paige.”

  Paige? Now she’s calling me Paige?

  “We’re all rooting for you.”

  It’s the nicest thing Vastag has ever said to me. It’s also the scariest. Because it tells me how much is riding on my win.

  Outside, a light drizzle is falling—the misty, barely there kind that does a real number on my hair. I tuck as much of it as I can under my raincoat and hurry down the sidewalk to the yellow bus waiting at the end of the drop-off zone. I’m not even to the back of the bus when the cheering starts. “Larsson, Larsson…”

  My face flames. Oh God, kill me now.

  When I reach the side of the bus, I see it: a six-foot-long paper banner taped to the side windows. Huge red letters say Comedy star Paige Larsson goes for the win. And ITCF rules!

  Comedy star? Seriously? It’s not enough that I’m about to potentially humiliate myself onstage in front of hundreds of strangers, but I have to humiliate myself for three hours on I-5 getting there?

  Smiling, the driver takes my bag and stows it with the other luggage. I take a deep breath and step onto the bus. The claps and whistles start. I spot Annalise and Liam. More buddies from drama. Hunter and Carly. Everybody’s smiling. My throat tightens. These guys are my friends. And they’re totally, 100 percent behind me. I’m lucky. I grin. “Gimp coming through.”

  “Larsson, Larsson!” The cheers keep coming.

  How embarrassing. “Shut up, guys, you’re violating the noise bylaws.” I make my way down the aisle. “They’re already getting calls in the office.” Clearly nobody believes me, because the cheers keep coming. I slide into the empty seat beside Hunter. An open bag of potato chips sits on his knees.

  Across the aisle, Carly is grinning like a crazy fool. “Oh my god, Paige, I can’t believe this day has finally come!” She fist-pumps the air.

  “Yeah. It’s amazing how Friday comes after Thursday.” I start to pull my jacket off. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

  Carly rolls her eyes. Hunter sets aside his chips to help me with my sleeve. There’s a chip crumb on his lower lip. I wonder what it would be like to kiss it away. Or have the guts to tell him how I feel. The thought makes me hot.

  “Sleep much?” he teases.

  “As much as possible.”

  He laughs. “At least you’re relaxed about everything.”

  “I’m so relaxed, I can barely keep my eyes open.” I open my mouth to fake a yawn, and a real yawn takes over.

  Carly leans over and sticks her phone under my nose. “I told you you’d hit that ten-thousand mark.”

  I stare down at the screen. It takes me a second to make sense of what I’m seeing. My YouTube channel has ten thousand subscribers. Before I was shortlisted for the ITCF, I had five thousand. “Wow.” My mouth is suddenly dry. “This whole thing has been totally worth it.” All the practicing, all the stressing.

  “Of course it’s been worth it,” Hunter says.

  “And it’s only the beginning,” Carly says. “Because you’re going to win, and you’ll go to New York, and you’ll be a star.”

  Annalise leans over from the seat ahead of us. “And the drama department will get ten grand out of the deal too!” she says.

  My heart lurches. “I know. It’s gonna be great!” As long as I win. If I lose, I let everybody down.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Roskinski boards the bus and the driver slides into his seat. After a reminder about proper bus etiquette (no cheering, no standing, no walking around) and an announcement that we’re stopping for lunch in Centralia, which is midway between Seattle and Portland, we head off.

  But by the time the bus hits I-5 south, I almost forget about the ITCF. Partly because the stupid springs on the bus seats make thinking impossible and partly because I’m sitting beside Hunter and the lack of springs means we’re constantly bumping shoulders.

  And shoulder bumping Hunter as we drive down I-5 is enough to make any girl forget her worries.

  Everything’s good until we reach Portland.

  “In another minute or so, we’ll be driving by the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall,” Mr. Roskinski says. “It’ll be on the right-hand side of the street.”

  I stare out the window. The traffic on Southwest Broadway is heavy. We’re barely creeping along.

  “There it is,” someone shouts.

  I spot the long green Portland sign attached to the side of the building. It looks like a giant pen. As the bus inches forward, the marquee comes into view: The International Teens in Comedy Festival. Welcome to America�
��s Newest & Funniest. Sponsored by Acacia Communications.

  My stomach erupts. Not into dainty butterflies but into a mess of rabid bats. This is really happening.

  “You guys are headliners,” Carly says. “That’s so cool.”

  “Hey.” Hunter nudges me. “Isn’t that your dad by the entrance?”

  “No way.” I lean forward so I can see around Carly’s shoulder. “It can’t be.”

  I blink once, twice, three times. It’s Dad, all right. He’s standing in front of the marquee, one arm around Mom and the other around Grandpa, a big smile on his face.

  Oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

  And then I spot the person taking the picture, and all hell breaks loose in the bat kingdom of my stomach. It’s Brooke. She’s standing between Twin One and Twin Two.

  Ten

  “Grandpa insisted on it,” Mom says about thirty minutes later when we’re sitting on butter-yellow leather chairs in the hotel lobby. Across from me, Grandpa beams with pride. “He made all the arrangements,” Mom adds. “He booked our rooms at the hotel. He contacted the festival office to make sure we’d have tickets waiting at the box office. He even arranged to borrow Jerry’s nine-seater van so we could all drive down together.”

  Grandpa is a make-it-happen kind of guy. Normally I love it. Today, not so much.

  The lobby is crowded. People are clustered by the tour desk, the entrance to the bar, the gift shop. There’s a steady stream of bodies coming through the circular front doors and heading for the check-in desk too. Most of them are around my age. Most of them are trailing suitcases. And most of them have that same is this for real? look of panic in their eyes.

  My competition.

  “We wanted to show up and surprise you!” Grandpa says.

  Surprises like this I don’t need. I’d literally just finished checking in—I hadn’t even been to my room yet—and when I turned around from reception, there they were. At least, Mom, Dad, and Grandpa were there. Brooke and the twins were in the gift shop.